Masked
by AfraidOfFalling
Summary: October 31st, 1981. After that distressing talk with Dumbledore, Snape flees to his solitude.


I don't own HP. The poems are "O Captain! my Captain!" by Walt Whitman and "A _Wounded_ Deer—leaps highest—" by Emily Dickinson. I tried to use periods to maintain the usual formatting of Whitman's poem (the indentation of the final lines in each stanza).

I apologize for how only about half of the words in this "story" is actually the story itself...

Happy reading!

* * *

**Masked**

_O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,  
__The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,  
__The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,  
__While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;  
__..But O heart! heart! heart!  
__...O the bleeding drops of red  
__.....Where on the deck my Captain lies,  
__.......Fallen cold and dead._

_O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;  
__Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,  
__For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,  
__For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;  
__..Here Captain! dear father!  
__....This arm beneath your head!  
__......It is some dream that on the deck,  
__........You've fallen cold and dead._

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,  
__My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,  
__The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,  
__From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;  
__..Exult O shores, and ring O bells!  
__....But I with mournful tread,  
__......Walk the deck my Captain lies,  
__........Fallen cold and dead._

Briskly he strode—down flickering corridors, past fiery torch brackets  
that cast long, black shadows on the unyielding floor. His face (should  
anyone so unfortunate to be in the same passage be of doughty  
enough heart to even glance at it) was blank and pallid beneath the  
curtain of oily midnight that swung malignly back and forth with his  
every step. His eyes, dark and trapping as coalmines and far more  
dangerous, glared with furious indifference at any trespasser. A thick  
shadowy cloak obscured the tension in his shoulders.

Descending with haste a final spiral set of stairs, he burst through his  
office door, barely restraining himself from slamming it shut behind him.  
He collapsed into the rough wooden chair behind his desk and allowed  
the air to seep from his lungs. Slumped in the unforgiving seat, he did  
not breathe again for several long moments.

Finally he glanced up at the walls entrapping him, drawing in a shaky  
breath. His desk was unnaturally clean—displaying only two neat  
piles of parchment, a quill, and some ink. The walls, dark dungeon  
stone, were almost bare—two months were not enough to solidify his  
claim to his surroundings.

He inhaled again, but this time it came as a sob. The mask of his face  
fell away, betraying shock, grief, and fear.

Outside the door, several students pattered down the steps,  
chattering excitedly as they returned from the Halloween feast. He  
stared unseeingly at the door long after their echoes had vanished.  
How peaceful, how innocent, how painless their lives were! They would  
wake up tomorrow and open the post their owls would bring them at  
breakfast—how they would shriek and whisper and discuss the  
happenings of this night: most of them triumphantly, a few  
disappointedly or angrily. Absent however, would be the terrible loss  
that tore now at his heart and throat and caused every ragged breath  
he took to feel as if he were inhaling not air but shattered glass.

What was he doing? What made him think that he might accomplish  
some _good_ in this world—he, slimy Slytherin Severus Snape, the ex-  
Death Eater? She was dead, and it was his fault. What was  
Dumbledore playing at, having him teach human beings at perhaps  
their most malleable age? What was he thinking in agreeing to _protect_  
the very child for whose parents he did precisely the opposite?

He had no answer. Azkaban could be no worse than the prison of his  
own thoughts; he was his own dementor.

Still barely daring to breathe, he pulled one of the stacks of parchment  
pieces closer—third-year essays yet to be graded. Loading the quill  
with scarlet ink, he forced the mask over his face and commenced his  
attack on grammar, spelling, poor arguments, and insufficient  
explanations. Let others celebrate the Dark Lord's downfall—his grief  
overcast his relief, and he had work to do.

_A _Wounded_ Deer—leaps highest—  
__I've heard the Hunter tell—  
__'Tis but the Ecstasy of _death_—  
__And then the Brake is still!_

_The _Smitten_ Rock that gushes!  
__The _trampled_ Steel that springs!  
__A Cheek is always redder  
__Just where the Hectic stings!_

_Mirth is the Mail of Anguish  
__In which it Cautious Arm,  
__Lest anybody spy the blood  
__And "you're hurt!" exclaim!_

* * *

Possibly, the "his own dementor" line sounds familiar. If so, that's probably because I used a variation of the same line in Fang of a Basilisk. I actually wrote it into this story before I wrote it into Fang of a Basilisk, but I turned this in as part of a school project and wanted to wait to publish it here until after my teacher had a chance to suggest changes (I earned an A! (Or rather, an "O")).

Review?? = )


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